SOUTH SOUTHEAST

Fingers tell the guitar man’s story.

Puddles are the snowflakes

of cold tears. Lost winds brush against

willow trees with breezes spinning

from the equator.

Cold walks. Hard rain. Diners without

vacant seats. Neon lights. Trucks

pushing a hard dark night. Flannel

shirts and too many stop signs.

Everybody wants to be found.

 

Open boxcars harbor half closed eyes on the

way to warmer sands where shoes are

tossed behind concrete benches.

 

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